Grandma’s Cellar

Happy Friday, my dear, patient Readers! It’s a hot one here in Columbus.

I’m trying again to get back in the habit of Friday Fictioneers, the writing prompt hosted weekly by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. She challenges us to write a story in 100 words, and bloggers all over the world give it a shot. Here’s mine. Enjoy!

Photo Prompt copyright by Jean L. Hays

Grandma’s Cellar

When I was six, there were monsters in Grandma’s cellar.

When I was ten, there was sweet strawberry jam. My sister and I ate a whole jar with a loaf of Grandma’s homemade bread, and Mama whipped us for it later.

When I was sixteen, I kissed Abe Wyatt in the cellar. It was my first kiss. Two weeks later, I cried in the cellar when he ended it.

Grandma’s cellar was special, a place for memories. Now I sit here silently remembering, because Grandma is gone and it feels like this cellar is all I’ve got left of her.

 

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When Winter Comes

Happy Friday, Readers! And Happy May! I thought now was as good a time as any to resume some Friday Fictioneers. Many thanks (as always) to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our FF host, and to Karen Rawson, who submitted this week’s photo. Enjoy! (Even if it is a sad story.)

Copyright by Karen Rawson

When Winter Comes

“Do you remember the first summer we came here?”

He looked encouragingly at his wife, the wind curling escaped wisps of her gray hair around her face. Wrinkles lined her eyes from years of smiling and laughing. His own wrinkles crinkled as he smiled at the woods before them. His wife was silent.

“We walked barefoot all the way down the creek,” he said. He squeezed his wife’s hand. “Do you remember?”

She looked at him. Her smile was bright, but her eyes held no light of remembrance. “I like you,” she said.

His heart crumpled. “I like you, too.”

Flowers of the Fairest

Happy belated Friday, Readers! Another week, come and gone. Now it’s time for Friday Fictioneers! Thanks to Rochelle as always, for hosting, and this week to Marie Gail Stratford for our photo. Enjoy this 100 word story! Today’s title and story was inspired by this hymn (Bring Flowers of the Rarest).

Copyright: Marie Gail Statford

Flowers of the Fairest

“Mom! Mom!”

“Yes, Sweetheart?” her mother answered, not pausing in washing the dishes.

“Look!”

She dutifully turned, hands still in the soapy water. A grinning, curly-haired five-year old girl held up a fistful of fresh roses for her mother to see. “I even used the scissors like you do, Mommy!”

The mother turned back to peer out of the kitchen window. Sure enough, her diligently cared for roses were picked clean. She lifted her eyes to heaven, took a deep breath, then turned back around with a smile. She grabbed a towel. “They’re beautiful, honey. Let’s get a vase.”

Continue reading “Flowers of the Fairest”

Hot and Sweet

Happy Friday, Readers! I have returned with a brand new Friday Fictioneers. As per usual, thanks is given to Rochelle for hosting this weekly prompt, and to J Hardy Carroll for providing this week’s photo. Enjoy this short story!

Copyright J Hardy Carroll

Hot and Sweet

“I’m a mess,” she laughed, holding up her sticky cotton candy fingers for him to see.

“When aren’t you?” His eyes crinkled with his smile. She laughed again, shrugging.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Then her fingers were in his mouth. The tinkling carousel, the noisy crowds, the crackling country music blaring over the loudspeakers; all faded under the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears. Neither said a word until he finished. The hot July air around them thickened unbearably.

He spoke first. “Race to the fun slide?”

The tension broke. She grinned and took off running in answer.

Compromised

Happy Friday Readers! I’m popping in to give you a long overdue Friday Fictioneers! We’re returning to the present with Nick and Emmeline and the startling revelation that Em is a spy. The tensions are only going to keep building for now. Enjoy!

Friday Fictioneers prompts are provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Copyright J. Hardy Carroll

Compromised

Nicholas’s mind was reeling.

“I’m a spy, Nicholas.”

It didn’t compute. The sweet, kind, adorably girlish at times woman he had come to know and love could not be a spy.

She’d take him to meet her CIA contact, she told him.

They rounded the corner. Emmeline froze suddenly. The street was covered in firetrucks, ambulances, and police. An apartment building was engulfed in flames. “Stay back!” ordered a policeman in a bright vest.

“But my uncle lives in that building!” Emmeline said with real fear in her voice.

“I’m sorry Miss,” he said. “No one made it out alive.”

The End Justified

Happy Friday, Readers! Sorry to leave you hanging with my last story (Emmeline is a spy? Who knew?) but we’re making a jump back in time this week with Friday Fictioneers. We’re visiting a scene from Emmeline’s past. But don’t worry, I’ll return to the present soon. Enjoy!

Thanks to Rochelle and Sandra Crook for this week’s prompt and photo.

Copyright: Sandra Crook

The End Justified

July, 1996

“Aren’t you hot?”

Emmeline tugged at the sleeves of her sweater which hid the fingerprints her father had left on her arm. “No,” she lied.

Leann sighed dramatically and fell backwards onto the grass. “Well I’m boiling.” When Emmeline remained silent, she changed subjects. “Why can’t you come to my birthday party?”

Emmeline shrugged. “My dad said no.” Truth. “We’re visiting my grandma or something.” Lie.

“That sucks.”

“I still got you a present.” She pulled out a Polly Pocket from underneath her oversized sweater.

Leann’s squeal of delight banished any guilt she had for her light fingers.

 

 

Price, Emmeline Price

Happy Friday, Readers! We’ve made it through another week! Now it’s time for Friday Fictioneers (which again, I am so sorry for skipping last week). Back to Nick and Emmeline’s story. I am sorry (not sorry) to say the cliffhangers are just going to keep on coming. Special thanks to Rochelle for providing the prompt, and to J Hardy Carroll for this week’s photo. Enjoy!

P.S. For those of you who celebrate it, Happy Michaelmas!

Copyright: J Hardy Carroll

Price, Emmeline Price

He’s a what?”

Nick stared at Emmeline, mouth open. She squeezed his hand again. “Stay calm, dear. Whatever I tell you, just react as if we were having a normal conversation over breakfast.”

He took a large sip of his coffee and scaled his tongue. Wincing, he said in lower tones, “How the hell did you get mixed up with an Armenian weapons dealer?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time.”

“Then I guess I’ll start at the beginning.” She gazed at their entwined hands, but didn’t say more.

“Well?” Nick said impatiently.

Emmeline looked up. “I’m a spy, Nicholas.”